I remember, as a boy on a farm, walking across hundred-acre fields with only a few feet of visibility. Unlike a wall — which restricts but also protects — fog created a vulnerability my young mind had never known. Something could see me before I saw it. Something could collide with me. Something could be watching. Probably not. But how would I know?
Beautiful from a distance, the fog was consuming up close. It swallowed my senses and my imagination, leaving me to guess at my surroundings and my route. Alone, isolated by millions of tiny droplets of water.
Sounds from distant trucks and feed troughs and the occasional farmhouse light were my only navigational beacons. Familiarity with those landmarks gave me at least an educated guess about how to get home.
I’ve navigated plenty of foggy days since leaving the farm. The fog of alcohol and anger. The fog of grief and loss. The fog of embarrassment, rejection, and jealousy. The fog of fear, frustration, and failure. Today, I’m writing through the fog of a head cold and the medication that makes focusing a chore.
The fogs of adulthood last longer and steal more than I’d like to admit. But I always know how to find my way home.
Fog keeps our minds fixed on what we’re missing — what we’ve lost, can’t reach, can’t see, don’t have, or can’t control. The path out is paved with gratitude. Our way becomes clear when we refocus on what we’ve already been given.
When we trust Christ and what he’s already done, the cross becomes our beacon — the light shining through the fog. When we reflect on God’s promises and the countless ways he’s blessed us, his Word becomes the compass by which we navigate. We need not guess. We simply trust the Light of the World and align our choices with his Word.
The fog still comes. It distracts. It discourages. It hobbles those who need to see before they’ll believe. Some will lose their way. But those who believe without seeing know this: the fog cannot change the path or the destination. It only temporarily changes the view.
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